The Winter Swing
by bellarke
Summary: Because the inevitably was that she was going to see him again and, this time, she wasn't going to miss. She expected that he would put up a fight. She didn't expect him to appear before her on the path, hands raised so that his palms faced her on either side of his head. Her wand was pointed at his heart when he spoke. "I've come to turn myself in."
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** This is my first published foray into the world of Dramione. I will forewarn you that I'm a massive Ron lover and Romione lover so there won't be any blatant Ron hate in this piece. If that's your jam, you might be in the wrong place... otherwise, I'm happy to inform you that not only am I an enormous multi shipper, but that Dramione ranks really high on the list. I love the idea and what could have been between them, so this is my contribution to the ship. _

_As far as the story goes, currently I don't see it going more than ten chapters or so, but things can change! All I do know is that we definitely won't get passed twenty._

 _With all this in mind, I'd like to introduce you to The Winter Swing, a story which has been playing in my mind for years and that has finally come to fruition._

 _Please leave some feedback if you can, it's only ever a good thing._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

The Winter Swing

 _Chapter One_

* * *

Summer and Autumn had come and gone quickly in London that year, and finally it seemed as though the dust was settling, and people were beginning to piece together what had once been their lives, turned upside down by the war that had ravaged their homes and their souls. Things had been difficult, of course, but what was left of the Order had been able to string together moments and memories enough to keep them uplifted in their times of crisis, of heart-wrenching sadness, of unbridled loss and hopelessness. Indeed, the wizarding world was moving on at long last from the horrors of what had come before.

Hermione was among those who favoured colder over the warmer months. For years she'd looked forward to returning to Hogwarts on the scarlet train, and how desperately she'd give anything for that feeling again. For there was no returning this year, nor the next. Hogwarts remained, of course, but so did the scars and the haunting thoughts she couldn't disassociate with its walls. She hoped one day to return, but not just yet. It was time to rebuild.

She smiled weakly at Harry as he passed her in the hallway of Grimmauld Place that morning, having already finished his breakfast before the rest of the house had woken. He touched her shoulder but did not meet her eye, and Hermione understood. Things were still painful. People's faces bared the scars of those they'd lost, and in her eyes, Harry saw them all because she felt them just as deeply. She knew that when he looked at her he saw Fred and Remus and Tonks and so many more, because she treasured them just as closely as he had. None other had ever really understood Hermione quite like Harry did, and she suspected that he felt similarly.

Despite her burgeoning relationship with Ron, Hermione would have laid down her life for Harry had the need arisen, and she knew he was aware of the fact. Perhaps it was this, rather than the ghosts of their dead friends, that kept him from looking her in the eye every day. Perhaps he knew that had the choice of sacrificing her life been presented to her, she would have given hers willingly, and in doing so chosen Harry, and not their best friend. Perhaps deep down they both understood that in war, decisions are sometimes made that reveal more of one's feelings than words ever could.

Hermione made herself tea and carried it with her to the living room of Grimmauld Place. She made for the window, eyeing the trees in the green outside, admiring the way the leaves had turned from green to brown, to frost-bitten grey. She watched as some dead leaves moved in the invisible breeze. Privately, she wondered if things would ever be as simple as the changing seasons. She thought fondly of her first year at Hogwarts, and how she'd been so bright eyed and excited and dumbfounded at the prospect that her life was going to change so completely. In her dreams she'd seen magic spells, dancing statues, moving pictures.

She'd never seen war, loss, a heartbreak so great that it threatened to spill from her every seam if she were to allow it.

Many mornings and nights since then, most especially when she had been hunting the horcruxes with the boys, she'd dreamed of life beyond war. So many times she'd imagined a peaceful life, a job she loved, a husband she'd want to come home to every day. His face used to be clear; fire-red hair, freckles across a long nose and a smiling mouth that welcomed her in. There had been times when Ron was all she'd dreamed of, but the times where he was nowhere in her dreams were becoming more commonplace.

She wondered if he felt his own feelings dissipating. Hermione certainly wouldn't hold it against him, but she couldn't be sure.

Just then, she heard footsteps descending that were unmistakably Ron's. He moved with heavier steps than Harry, and at a slower pace. He had always been the more relaxed of the pair. Hermione often liked the sound of his footsteps, the reminder that he was near. But like her dreams, it was becoming less so. It wasn't that she didn't want him close but, rather, she didn't mind if there was distance between them anymore.

Instead of going to the kitchen as she'd imagined, Ron came into the room behind her and crossed it in five steps. His hands touched just below her shoulders, palms flat against her arms, and he moved them up and down slowly. It was a cold morning in the house, and Hermione sank into him so that his arms came and wrapped around her, hands clasped over hers as she held her tea.

"You didn't sleep well last night," he told her, and she shook her head.

"Neither did you," she said, turning her head so that her cheek was against his chest. "Otherwise you wouldn't know that I didn't."

She felt Ron's lips press against the top of her head and she closed her eyes.

"It'll come," he told her. "Things will be better."

* * *

He had always hated the change between autumn and winter, how the weather changed, and the skies grew suddenly darker. He sometimes felt as though he needed the light of day to make up for the darkness inside himself, all the pain and grief he'd caused and left in his wake when he'd decided that destruction was the path he'd wanted to follow. Or had it been the other way around? Had destruction chosen him? Was he ever heading for anything else? Had he been moulded and shaped for a destiny that had never been his own to determine, ever since birth?

Questions swam in Draco's mind as he lay in bed. He'd nothing to get up for that day, no one to meet, nothing to tempt him from his warm sheets, even though everything seemed to feel cold to him now, and had done since the moment he'd accepted the blackness on his arm. The mistakes of his past would haunt him forever; it was no ordinary tattoo, nothing that could be removed with a simple healing charm or concealment spell. It was a decision he'd never wanted to make, nor felt he even had any say in. Now it would always be a part of his life; the past he could never escape.

He wondered silently how long it would be until they came for him.

Fugitive, criminal… murderer.

He turned the labels over in his mind, allowing the familiar feeling of cold sweat claiming the back of his neck and the swirling uncertainty of vomit in his stomach.

He was a murderer. He'd allowed Voldemort's followers into the castle, had led them to the astronomy tower; he was the one responsible for the death of one of the greatest wizards who'd ever lived. Privately he'd always wondered if he might have been able to ask for help, to go to Professor Dumbledore, to Snape, to anyone… perhaps if he had, things would be different. Perhaps if he had, Dumbledore would be alive and able to celebrate the downfall of the dark lord with Potter and all the rest of them.

Draco had never wanted Dumbledore dead; he'd only ever wanted himself alive, and in the stakes of life and death and Lord Voldemort, there had been only one solution – only one way forward.

Draco had never wanted to die, but he'd found himself wondering – lately more than ever – if it would have been easier. If he'd refused the mission, the orders, if he'd refused to murder the man who'd protected so many people for years and years…

But would his family have suffered? Would his mother have been safe?

Would he only have been remembered as the spoiled boy who'd been too afraid to fight and had been killed for it?

Draco had never wanted to be a coward, but a coward he'd been nonetheless when the time had come.

The guilt, the weight of his conscience, the unremitting hatred he felt for himself now seemed punishment enough for his crimes.

But he knew it wasn't, and he knew they would come for him one day.

"You should take some air," his mother remarked when he arrived for breakfast an hour later. Despite their circumstances, Narcissa Malfoy remained stoic and prepared, and Draco wolfed down the toast and fruit on offer.

'You look too pale."

"I rather think that would be counterproductive, Narcissa," said Lucius from the other end of the kitchen table. He was only one seat away, but the distance Draco felt between himself and his father seemed so much bigger than that.

"The ministry searches for us daily, if Draco is spotted wandering around, let alone in a place teeming with muggles -"

"The ministry is concerned currently with locating far more dangerous people than we," Narcissa told her husband, who looked momentarily aghast at the interruption.

His expression soon faded to one of defeat however, as Lucius knew more than any other that he was in no position to challenge his wife. It was she, after all, who had dragged them from the battleground on that fateful day so many months earlier. It was she, despite arguments to the contrary, that ran their household now.

"You haven't been outside in weeks." Narcissa returned her attention to her son, fondly touching the back of his hand where it rested on the table.

"The air will do you good, and when you've a clear head we can discuss further the plea bargains we intend to make-"

'Narcissa!"

"-when they come for us. Don't look at me like that, Lucius. They will come and you're a fool to think otherwise. We must prepare."

His father responded in some sour manner, but Draco didn't hear it. Truthfully, he hadn't listened to a word beyond his father reminding them that the ministry was searching for them each and every day. He knew it was true, and though they didn't seem to be giving urgent chase, it wouldn't be long until they tracked them all down and interrogated them one by one, then shipped them off to Azkaban.

Despite his mother's assurance that no harm would come to him, Draco often thought that it should. He had never imagined hating anything so intensely, let alone hating himself.

* * *

Hermione had taken to walking the gardens and green around Grimmauld Place, and that afternoon was no different. Ron kissed her before she left, ensuring her scarf was then up around her face because they were late into November and the weather had changed. Hermione tried not to dwell on the idea that his kiss seemed somehow limp, because she wondered if he had thought the same. She called through to the lounge to let Harry know she'd be back soon, but when no reply came she assumed he'd fallen asleep in the chair by the fire again. He often did that, and Hermione supposed he was catching up on all the sleep he'd missed the last seven years.

The pavements were icy under her feet as she left the house, making her way to the greens behind the estate. Despite the cold weather and the dead leaves having left behind empty branches, the green was enormous, and she felt safe and hidden within it. She passed the familiar sights as she always did: the fountain of flowers, now frozen over, the greenhouses that belonged to nearby residents that were fogged up with cold, the path that was sometimes overgrown but now treacherous with black ice… Finally, she found the playground.

For months she had been coming to it, and not once had there been any sign of children. Grimmauld Place itself seemed devoid of life, and Hermione often found herself wondering if anybody still lived there at all. Now and then she'd see lamps flickering in windows, but she knew well enough that it could be squatters or runaways just bedding down for the night. Still, she hoped that some life would return to the place. It didn't seem right to have a playground with no children to enjoy it.

The gate squealed as it always did, stiff from lack of use, as she eased it open and slipped inside. As she rounded the corner, she expected to find the emptiness of the park greeting her.

But for the first time in all the months she'd visited, she wasn't alone.

A man sat with his back to her on one of the swings, but he didn't sway backwards and forwards. His feet were set flat on the floor, his head bowed forward just slightly. Despite this, Hermione saw the inimitable flash of white-blond hair on his head, and her stomach fell. Immediately, her hand went for her wand where it was hidden inside her coat. As her fingers closed around the body of wood, she found herself rooted to the spot.

In the silence that followed, she heard only one, faint sound.

He was crying.

And then, as if by some magic, he stopped. His head shot up, he stood.

He turned.

Hermione looked at Draco Malfoy for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts, but she didn't recognise him.

Her wand raised, she made no other move.

He stared back, and likewise he remained still. His eyes tracked her from head to foot, but he settled his gaze on her wand. His eyes were red, and Hermione saw the stains of wetness as they streaked down his cheeks. His tears were fresh and likely warm, but the air he breathed out made a haze in the cold air as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Do it," he breathed, barely audible but Hermione heard him, and she wondered what was taking her so long.

He deserved to suffer for everything he'd done, for all the pain he'd caused, for Dumbledore and Dean and Luna and Dobby and Ollivander and for his part in all of it. For all she'd endured that night at Malfoy Manor, when some tiny piece of her had wondered for the briefest of moments whether he might have helped, instead of standing by and watching as his aunt branded Hermione with blood and pain.

"Do it!" he screamed, and Hermione jumped, and his cry echoed around them for miles.

He had spread his arms out, level with the ground, and his eyes were wide and frenzied as he looked at her. Hermione tried to recall a time when she'd ever seen him like this but she couldn't. Malfoy had never looked so hopeless and so maddened all at once, and Hermione couldn't find it in herself to curse or jinx him. He looked so…

"Please," he whispered, his chin trembling with new unshed tears.

So broken.

She lowered her wand, ignoring the voice that sounded suspiciously like Ron calling her daft for doing so in the back of her mind. Malfoy looked at her still, and Hermione thought she saw disappointment in his face, mingled now with the madness of his eyes.

"They're looking for you," she told him shakily, wand still gripped tight in her hand.

"Then call them," he replied, hands falling loudly to his sides. He turned his gaze to the ground and shook his head.

Hermione was uncertain; she'd never seen him behave in this way. She knew how to handle Malfoy when he was raging, when he was arrogant, when he was vile… but not like this. And why hadn't she called the ministry? Why hadn't she sent her patronus to Harry and Ron to call for help? Why was she merely watching him fall apart before her eyes?

It would be easy to overpower him in this state, easy to haul him in to the ministry and have done with it. He deserved to feel the way he did, for everything he'd done, and she'd be glad when he was locked away for his crimes.

And yet she felt something she'd never imagined she'd feel for Draco Malfoy.

Pity.

Because weren't they all just children caught up in a war? Weren't they just two people whose circumstances found them on different sides?

Wasn't he just a boy forced to grow up too soon, just as she was a girl far older than her years?

 _No_ , said the voice again. She didn't pity him, she wouldn't.

Following a hollow chuckle, Malfoy turned his back on her and retreated towards the far entrance.

"Stop!" she called, and her hex missed him by inches.

But he was unperturbed. He continued to walk.

"I said, stop!"

She sent her hex once more but missed again.

By the time the body bind curse had formed on her lips a third time, he was gone. Hermione raced to the edge of the park and through the other gates, but no matter which way she looked, Draco Malfoy had disappeared, and there was a trail of damp patches as big as teardrops along the ground in his wake.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I've always been an enormous Draco fan, and I love the potential in him. This is how I see him in the months following the DH. Perhaps you'll agree, perhaps not, but either way hopefully you'll come back for more._

 _Thanks so much for reading! Em x_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much for coming back for more! I sincerely hope that this instalment lives up to your expectations; it's a little shorter than the first chapter but hopefully enough to persuade you to come back for chapter three.

* * *

The Winter Swing

 _Chapter Two_

* * *

Hermione turned the encounter over in her mind for two days.

She'd reasoned herself into believing she should turn Malfoy in to the ministry but, truthfully, she wouldn't even know where to start. The very fact that she'd come across him had been by such chance that, realistically, it probably wouldn't happen again, and despite the fact that Malfoy and both his parents were wanted for questioning by Kingsley and the others working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione found herself thinking more and more that revealing her encounter with the disgraced boy, whom she'd hated for so long, just wasn't worth it.

Kingsley wouldn't know where to start looking and Hermine wouldn't be of any help if he happened to want to start chasing down leads. She knew already that the man-hunt for Lucius Malfoy had any surviving aurors from the battle of Hogwarts scouring the whole of England and Wales. Soon, she suspected, they would broaden their search into Scotland and Ireland and, then, Europe.

Hermione rolled over in bed, her chest coming to rest against Ron's arm as he lay beside her. She thought he'd been feigning sleep, considering neither of them had conquered the art of it particularly well since the end of the way. Although as she looked at him now, lips slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering, she realised that he had finally managed to find some peace in the dead of the night. A smile touched her lips and she draped her palm across his chest, feeling it rise and fall in restful sleep.

There was a distant, muted noise of a chair scraping backwards somewhere downstairs, and Hermione pulled her hand from Ron. He stirred, briefly, but did not wake.

Her dressing gown draped around her, Hermione padded from the room and along the hallway, not daring to look up at the covered portraits that decorated the walls. She descended the stairs in a quiet hurry; there was something about Grimmauld Place at night that unsettled her; perhaps it was the knowledge that people who hated her, actively sought to eradicate her 'kind', had owned and lived in this house not so long ago. Their ghosts, present or not, seemed to haunt her more with every step she took.

She found Harry, bathed in candlelight, in the kitchen a few moments later. On the table in front of him was a photo album, a familiar-looking photograph moving in front of him Hermione quietly made her way into the kitchen and took the seat beside him, but he didn't look up. She peered over to see the photograph, and a tightness formed in her throat as she wondered what she could say to him to help, to make him feel better, to make him feel… anything at all.

Harry's eyes were unseeing as they stared down at his parents.

Hermione tentatively reached out and put her hand in his.

"Harry-"

"I thought that, when it was all over, I'd feel… different."

Hermione closed her eyes, tightening her fingers around his. She felt him squeeze back for a moment, but then his grip went slack again.

"I thought I'd feel as if it had all been worth it, but…" He looked at her then, and feeling his gaze, Hermione opened her brown eyes to find tears in his green ones.

"I don't feel anything like that, Hermione. I don't feel anything."

Hermione couldn't find the words to comfort him, as she'd always been able to before. Instead, she moved her chair closer to his, took his hand from the table and held it in her lap, then pressed their heads together as he lay his on her shoulder, and she let him cry there in the candlelight until Ron came down, hours later, to find them in the morning.

* * *

The house his mother had moved them to the following week was colder than the last; as their days in exile and solitude seemed to linger onwards, Draco found himself more and more getting used to the feeling. The lack of warmth seemed a fair enough punishment, too. He wondered quietly to himself when he'd begun to start enjoying the forced solitude of his situation; not to mention when he'd begun to enjoy the consequences of all he'd done before.

He didn't particularly have anyone to see or anywhere to go, so disliking himself almost entirely seemed to pass the time better than anything else.

His mother had mentioned the plea bargain again over the dinner later that day.

"It's all in place," she had told him. "When they come -"

"If," Draco's father had interjected from behind the newspaper he'd been reading. "If they come, my darling."

"Either way," she replied equally. "The details are all in place. As I have promised you, Draco, no harm will come to you." She touched his cheek briefly, running her fingertip just along the bone, before going back to cutting her lamb.

Despite their circumstances, his mother still seemed able to keep a very good table.

"You say that as though I don't deserve it," Draco said, his tone bitterly sharp as he looked over the top of his father's newspaper. Lucius was glaring back at him.

"As though none of us do," he went on, dropping his father's gaze.

"What are you talking about?"

Narcissa Malfoy had lost many things the day Voldemort had been defeated. Her home had been sacked by ministry and criminals alike, her sister had been killed, her reputation and that of her family was ruined. But she remained a mother, and she remained the matriarch of an otherwise failing family. Draco knew his mother would move heaven and earth for him if she had to; she'd told him as much when she'd revealed she'd lied to Voldemort in order to find him.

When she'd all but signed the dark lord's death sentence herself when she'd protected Harry Potter that night in the forest.

Still, did that right the wrongs of their family? Did it wipe their slate clean? Would anybody care if it did?

His mind went immediately the park, where he'd laid eyes on the girl, whom he'd spent half of his life being told he hated, for the first time in almost six months. It had been a strange feeling, the pang in his stomach, and before he'd considered the situation his arms had been outstretched and he felt… relieved. Finally, someone was there to end it.

Yet she hadn't, and he'd never hated her than in the moment when she'd refused to take away the pain.

 _Pain._

"Draco, are you listening?"

His mother's voice broke through the hum of his mind as things began to swirl into focus.

"Draco!" His father's voice was much harder but did nothing to garner Draco's respect nor attention. Lucius had lost both the day he'd coming running along behind Draco and his mother as they left the battle of Hogwarts hand in hand.

His father was a coward.

And Draco was no better.

"Of course," Draco lied, his knuckles turning white while his hand clenched his fork.

"The ministry has attempted to make waves in our family once before, and they failed. They'll do so again, though this time we shan't escape with quite so few consequences. They're looking to make arrests, and a Malfoy in prison would signify to the wizarding world that the dark side has fallen completely."

"But it has," Draco said, his voice strained.

His mother was nodding.

"Which is precisely why the ministry is rounding up all known associates, whether they were willing participants or not."

His mother's tone was curious, and Draco understood immediately that she considered the Malfoys as being unwilling participants. It was a half-truth, depending on which member of the family the ministry would speak with first, if they caught them.

"Our name in the paper as having been apprehended would restore peace of mind to many, despite the fact that we were coerced into servitude," said Lucius.

Draco's fork was cutting into the palm of his hand, he was holding onto it so tightly. Noticing her son's discomfort, Narcissa reached across and touched the back of his hand lightly. Draco relaxed immediately, and though his mind began to clear suddenly and he discovered he had somewhere he needed to be after all, he couldn't bring himself to look his mother in the eye and lie to her.

He pushed his chair back and ignored her attempts to catch his eye.

"I'm going for some air," he declared, taking his coat from the hook near the door. "You were right, father," he continued, because he had no problem looking his father in the eye and telling tales.

"Walking really did help to improve my frame of mind."

He disapparated from the kitchen with a resounding pop before his mother was able to ask where he was going.

* * *

Harry had slept all day, waking occasionally for some small bits of food and drink, but he'd kept mostly to his room and enjoyed some well-deserved slumber. Hermione had led him upstairs after Ron had discovered them in the kitchen and remarked about their desperately needing to rest earlier in the morning, and when she'd closed the door on Harry – who'd fallen asleep as soon as cheek had met pillow – she went back to her and Ron's room in an attempt to sleep herself.

She'd failed miserably and had found herself staring at the ceiling still when, hours later, Ron had brought a cup of tea and some toast for her to snack on.

"Is there anything I can do?" he'd asked sheepishly, hands in his pockets as he rocked on his heels.

Hermione inhaled the sweet smell of the tea and smiled at him over the rim of the cup.

"You're doing it," she'd assured him, standing from the bed to embrace him with her free arm. She felt Ron breathe in and out deeply as his arm wove around her, and then he pulled back.

"I'm worried about Harry," he whispered, and Hermione nodded. "I've never seen him like this."

"I know," she agreed, and as she searched Ron's eyes for the reason she'd fallen in love with him, she was struck suddenly by a thought.

"I think it might be a good idea to get him away from this house," she said, looking around.

Ron's arm came away from her back and he moved to stand beside her. Together, they looked through the bedroom door and out into the hall, where there were darkened squares on the walls where old portraits of blood purists had hung.

"He needs to be somewhere he feels loved, and as much as you and I love him,' she reassured Ron as he began to object, "This isn't the place Harry first felt like part of a family."

Ron drew his lips into a thin line, his hand slipping into hers.

"I need to take him home," he told her, and Hermione smiled gently, knowingly.

Ron leaned down and pecked her on the lips.

"You're brilliant, you are."

And he set about packing his things.

Hermione watched him, a faint glimmer of something she used to feel in her stomach.

Because Ron was brilliant too, but she hadn't found it within herself to kiss him back.

Hours later, as it began to grow dark outside, Hermione kissed goodbye to Harry as he stepped into the fireplace at Grimmauld Place and made for the Burrow. Hermione had decided she'd stay behind and start making the place more liveable; Harry was adamant that he wanted to return to where Sirius had lived, now that it was Harry's by law. With Sirius being the last 'true' heir (and by true, the deed had meant male) the house had become his, and with his own death, Harry's.

"I'll come back," Ron said, his lips brushing her cheek as he followed Harry and stepped into the grate.

It seemed as though he wanted to say something else, but neither he nor Hermione seemed able to find the right words. With a final, appreciative smile at her, Ron threw the powder to the ground and disappeared in a burst of green flame.

Hermione let go of a breath she didn't know she'd been holding in.

Hermione hadn't planned on returning to the park that evening, but she found her way there nonetheless.

The frost was thick beneath her boots, crunching as she walked. The days were shorter but the hours felt somehow longer, and with the darkening sky Hermione felt an increasing feeling of inevitably. Truthfully, she didn't want to be in Grimmauld Place alone, but she couldn't bring herself to have left with the boys; she wanted to make it into a home for Harry, one he'd be proud to call his, a place that would radiate the same love and warmth that he usually did.

But she'd found herself walking out of the front door soon after Harry and Ron had left, despite wanting to get started as soon as she could. Her feet had carried her, as they so often had over the months that had come before, to the playground, and all the way there she'd clutched her want expectantly.

Because the inevitably was that she was going to see _him_ again and, this time, she wasn't going to miss. She expected that he would put up a fight.

She didn't expect him to appear before her on the path, hands raised so that his palms faced her on either side of his head.

Her wand was pointed at his heart when he spoke.

"I've come to turn myself in."

* * *

 _Feedback is love. Em x_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** If you've come back for more, then a sincere thank you for that. I'd like to think that not all the chapters will be as short as this one, but I'm also not someone who likes a word count for the sake of a word count. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

The Winter Swing

 _Chapter Three_

* * *

 _It's a trick._

The voice, which sounded suspiciously like Ron, was back. In the depths of her mind, as she stared down her wand at Malfoy and his hands raised in surrender, Hermione heard the voice tell her that it was a trick, a con, a trap set to capture her while Ron and Harry were away. While she was all alone.

 _It's a trick._

The voice made sense. The voice spoke logically. The voice told the truth.

 _Didn't it?_

"What do you want?" Hermione chanced, and she watched as his shoulders drooped, followed closely by a familiar-looking roll of his eyes.

"Just get on with it, will you?" he all but demanded, eyes returning to a look of wildness as they engaged with her own.

"Take me in."

"Why?" Hermione answered, her fingertips white where they held her wand in her shaking hand.

"Why now?"

His shoulder drooped further, and his arms fell to his sides, hands finding the pockets of his trousers with ease in a move he'd done hundreds of times before. Hermione flinched as she watched this.

Was this the part where he hexed and kidnapped her?

"Don't move," she warned, but he only looked at her with a bored expression.

"Granger, just take me to the ministry."

But it seemed far too easy. Too simple. Hermione had never been one to believe in simplicity; there was never a problem that could be solved just 'like that', and never a situation like this where there hadn't been consequences because of someone acting rashly and following a criminal's request. Hermione knew her options were limited.

The ministry had been looking for the Malfoys for weeks; Lucius was set for Azkaban when he was caught, likely that Narcissa would follow soon after, but as for Draco… he'd been there the night of Dumbledore's murder; he'd done nothing to help, nothing to stop the brutality of it all, and despite it all being part of the plan, despite the fact that Hermione knew that Dumbledore had chosen his own death… Malfoy hadn't. Malfoy had fully intended to slaughter the man that had protected them all for years.

Hermione's lip curled in disgust as she looked at him, and when Malfoy opened his mouth to speak again, Hermione silenced him with her wand. Briefly, he seemed appalled. It looked that words as harsh as she'd heard from him in the past were brewing, but he couldn't release them.

He stepped forward.

His hands came up in surrender again.

Before he took another step, Hermione waved her wand once more.

Malfoy collapsed, stunned, and Hermione was left to decide her next move.

* * *

When he awoke to a throbbing pain in his forehead, Draco didn't immediately understand where he was. Yet there was something familiar about the place, the smell reminiscent of somewhere he'd visited as a child, once, a very long time ago.

He turned his head to the right, discovered he was lying on an aged sofa full of holes, and then turned the other way. He found Hermione Granger sitting across from him, and beside her, the Minister of Magic.

Rising with some difficulty, Draco succeeded in sitting up, swinging his legs around, and facing them both. At the very least, Granger had had the decency to put him on the sofa instead of the floor.

"Miss Granger has convinced me there's no need for restraints," said Shacklebolt. His tone was cold and hard, but despite his stare boring into him, Draco turned his gaze instead on the muggle-born girl opposite him, who promptly looked away. She had his wand in her lap.

"She also tells me you're here to turn yourself in, which begs the question: what exactly should I punish you for?"

For a moment, Draco misread Shacklebolt's words and thought it a genuine question. But as the minister began to answer himself, Draco's confidence receded, and he was forced to listen to a rundown of his deeds in the far too near past.

"Perhaps for the attempted murder of Professor Albus Dumbledore during your sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Aiding and abetting death eaters, both in entering the castle, and then in their escape following that very murder? Or perhaps I should arrest you for kidnapping and torture. After all, Miss Granger's trauma at the hands of your aunt while you stood by and did nothing is news to no one in this room. In fact, given that you made no move to intervene, I would hold you as equally responsible for that trauma."

"Or perhaps, lastly, I should arrest you for your public display of support of Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts, wherein you abandoned friends, professors and the school that kept you safe for seven years, all in the name of power."

The silence that followed these suggestions was deafening. Draco fought hard against the bile rising in his throat.

"Please tell me, Mr Malfoy, which of these transgressions would you prefer me to try you for first? I daresay that each of them alone would earn you more than a life's sentence in Azkaban. Altogether, well… I couldn't possibly say."

Shacklebolt's eyes turned harder than before.

"The dementors are yet to be removed. I'm sure you would be a welcome addition to their prison."

Draco hadn't realised his hands were shaking until he was forced to sit on them to hide them from view. Granger had spotted his discomfort, but he couldn't read the expression on her face. Shacklebolt allowed the silence to engulf them this time; he made no attempt at hiding his dislike of Draco, who knew he deserved little else. But it didn't mean that he liked the way he was being looked at by the pair of them; Shacklebolt, his eyes cold and accusing and as though he was dreaming up ways to make Draco suffer. And then Granger. She wore an odd mixture of pity and hatred in her eyes, and Draco liked neither.

"I know what I've done," Draco said, unable to hide the disgust in his voice. Whether it pertained to himself or them, he didn't know.

"I'm not trying to run away from it. Why else would I be here?"

"That's what we'd like to find out," Granger said, and her soft voice broke the silence like a glass shattering.

"I've already told you," Draco bit back with more venom that intended. "I'm here to turn myself in; I'm here to answer for my crimes. All of them, everything I've done…" he spared a glance at Granger and noticed for the first time the scarf around her neck. He wondered if she used it to hide the cut the dagger had made.

 _And everything I didn't do_ , he finished to himself silently.

"Regardless of your true motivations, which are still in question make no mistake," Shacklebolt commandeered Draco's attentions once more.

"We feel that, though you deserve Azkaban, it is not the place where you'll be most useful."

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"While you are one of many still in hiding, we feel your place is not within the confines of a prison, but rather as a turncoat out in the open. In exchange for your freedom, we're prepared to offer you a deal."

"You want me to spy," Draco guessed. He chuckled mirthlessly; it was the first laugh in months, and it felt foreign in his chest despite its sarcastic nature.

"If I'm found out, I'll be dead anyway."

"Your safety isn't our priority." Granger said coldly. "But Harry's is, and so is the rest of the wizarding world. Until your death eater friends are all caught, none of us is safe."

Draco saw her hand touch her other forearm. He wondered if the wound was yet healed.

"They're not my friends," he challenged, eyes lifting from her arm to her face.

"But they are your family." She matched his poisonous tone with plenty of malice in her own.

"You have a decision to make, Mr. Malfoy," said Shacklebolt, rising from his seat. "And until its made, you'll not be leaving this house. You have twenty four hours.'

With that, he disappeared from the room. A low popping sound echoed throughout the house as he disapparated.

Draco's gaze was still on Granger, and he wondered why Shacklebolt had been so quick to leave them alone together if he suspected Draco's appearance had been a trap after all.

"I have the authority to kill you, if it comes to it,' Granger said, as plainly as if she'd told him the weather report for the following day.

"What happens to me after twenty four hours if I don't help you?" he spat, nose wrinkling as she stood up and appeared to move closer.

"Azkaban for the rest of your life," she told him easily, retrieving some clothes from under where she'd been sitting and throwing them at him. "Or death if you try to run."

* * *

No more than an hour later, Hermione received an owl from Ron as she sat alone in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Her back to the hallway door, she read the letter quietly to herself.

 _Hermione,_

 _Harry's settled in, but still not talking much. He's not even really talking to Ginny. We're all worried, but hoping he'll come through it soon. I think it was the best idea for me to bring him here, I just wish you were here too._

 _Let me know if you need anything and I'll come back._

 _Miss you._

 _Ron._

Her chest suddenly heavy with a lump, eyes threatening to stream with tears, Hermione tried to take a deep breath but a sob erupted instead. It was as though all those months had quite rightly begun to burst from her, the emotions she'd stowed for the sake Harry and Ron and the Weasleys; all people who'd lost so much more than her. She hadn't allowed herself to really cry for them all yet, all the ones they'd lost because of one man and his quest for power, and those who followed him.

A floorboard creaked, and Hermione whipped around in her seat.

She found Malfoy staring back, hands in his pockets, no doubt enjoying her in that state.

"What do you want?" she choked out, hands gripping for her wand.

When she found it, she aimed once again at his chest.

He didn't move.

"Now, now, Granger. We both know you only hex me when my back's turned."

"Get out!" she cried, standing from the seat and allowing the letter from Ron to fall to the floor.

Draco's eyes followed it down and it was as though he couldn't help himself.

"News from lover boy?"

She snarled at him, casting aside her wand and instead slapping every part of him she could reach.

"I hate you!" she cried louder, pounding on his chest.

"Then- in that, we-we are the- same," he replied with some effort, catching hold of her forearms to put a stop to her onslaught.

She wrenched herself free of him and stepped back.

"No!" she shouted, hair frizzing in wet curls where her tears had been caught in them, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

"We are not the same. I hate you for everything you choose to be!" Her chest was heaving; she had never felt rage like it.

"You hate me," she advanced on him, a finger pointing at his face. "For everything I cannot change about myself." She paused to take a deep breath. The finger that was aiming at him was shaking, along with the rest of her.

"We will never be the same!"

With that, she shoved past him and made for the stairs, not caring to look back at him again.

How could she have agreed to this? To be confined with him and him alone, a man she loathed almost more than any other? That had stood by and allowed her torture, allowed her friends to be tortured and maimed. That had teased and bullied them all relentlessly for years.

The bedroom door slammed behind her, and disturbed dust danced around above the doorframe. Hermione threw herself onto the bed next to where Crookshanks lay. As she sobbed, the cat curled into her chest.

* * *

Alone in the kitchen, the echoing sounds of Granger's sobs filtering down to him, Draco had only one thought:

 _You'll never hate me as much as I hate myself._

There was only one way forward, that he knew.

He only hoped that when it was over, his mother would be able to forgive him.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Obviously, we all have different ideas of characters. These are mine, and I hope you can see why I see them in this way. Please leave feedback, it encourages progress and writing like nothing else! Em x_


End file.
